Not Enough
by DuchessOfDementia
Summary: He was a sinner and a fool. A sinner because he desired her so, and a fool for believing he could attain her. Rennac/L'Arachel, slight Ephraim/L'Arachel.


All his life, he had known himself to be greedy, selfish, impulsive, rude, self-absorbed and generally sinful, but he had never thought himself to be a fool.

On the contrary—he had always prided himself on his level-headedness. For the twenty years he had been alive, his senses were always sharp and alert, constantly thinking up ways to best serve himself and avoid trouble. To him, women were certainly something to be enjoyed, but never something to dwell upon. The day his father organized his contract with the Pontifex of Rausten, however, was the day his fate was sealed, and his resolve unraveled.

She was the image of youth and energy, lovely and radiant to behold. She _always_ had an opinion, nevermind if anyone wanted to hear it, and she seemed to have the impression that she was going to be some famous heroine, and that people would write stories about her and adore her wherever she went.

Her looks certainly received attention, and admittedly, his eyes were among the ones that watched her. Her every movement was like a dance, she was so full of life, and her grace was unparalleled. Domineering and vain though she was, he still found things to admire. Namely, her bravery.

She was nothing but a seventeen-year-old girl on a horse, and yet, she never shrank away from a fight. She would charge headfirst into hordes of foul, hellish things, her face beaming. Through the bruises and the blood, she remained steadfast, like some fearless goddess. It utterly amazed him; even he, who clearly had more fighting prowess than she did, submitted to his natural cowardice every once in a while. It was nothing more than self-preservation, instinct; he didn't understand why she seemed to lack all sense of such things. But nevertheless, it drew him to her.

Though he had first written her off as your average, run-of-the-mill princess, vain and haughty, he soon saw this to be completely false. Her thirst for battle and glory was more than enough to set her apart from the average princess, but even more than that, he could sense something else: loneliness.

He saw it behind her eyes, he heard it in her voice, he could damn near _smell_ it on her. He realized, shortly after entering her service, that he knew next to nothing about her past. It seemed to be the only thing she _didn't_ talk about. Dozla had brought it up, once. She had been orphaned early on, her parents dying during some religious crusade that their deaths left unfinished. The fog lifted, and it was all very clear to him—she was nothing but a lonely little girl, desperate to glorify her parents' names and cause, desperate for attention, for adoration, for love. Beneath her splendid beauty, magnificent clothes and haughty words, she only wanted someone to smile at her and tell her she had done a good job.

A year of traveling with her did no good to stay his curiosity for the girl. He had found her irritating at first, to be sure, but what he found even _more_ irritating was the way he could see the battles wearing on her. Her lovely face, with such smooth, lily-white skin and full lips, was no longer the glowing mask of radiance and confidence that had colored his dreams. Her eyes became dark, dead-seeming. Her hair lost its healthy shine. Her skin, though still so fair and smooth, had paled even more, giving her the look of a recently-dead corpse.

Her smiles then were only weary; never the excited beams she used to throw at him every time she downed an enemy. She was quiet, so ominously quiet, and it drove him mad. In those days, he had longed so strongly to hear her voice, to know that she was still the princess that had so captivated him.

But the war was pressing down on her spirit, like a thumb on her forehead, ever-present and ever-increasing. As our enemies' numbers grew, so too did the pressure for her to always be in top-form, to revive any fallen comrade. But as the number of deaths steadily grew, he noticed she was losing sleep, growing paler, eating less. She spoke less and less until she didn't speak at all. She had withdrawn completely from the world, her courage finally defeated, finally extinguished by the shadow of death.

To see her like that had made him hurt in a place he hadn't felt in a long time. In that place, it had caused him pain, like the twisting of a knife. In those days, he had wanted nothing more than to sit at her side, stroke her hair, and told her that she had done a good job. But, as in all other things, his cowardice got the better of him.

It was then that she began speaking with the reckless prince known as Ephraim. Within a week, he had gotten her to crack a smile. After another week, he made her laugh—oh, his heart stilled to hear it—and after yet another week in his company, her glow returned, she ate again, and she was sleeping regularly.

His thoughts blasphemed the prince, cursing him for accomplishing the very thing he had so longed to do. But it had to have been him, hadn't it? He was a prince, _her_ prince. He had seen him watching the princess with acute interest, following her every moment with glazed eyes. He was like every other man in the world when he caught scent of a beautiful woman—his every thought, every action was for her. Back then, he wasn't sure if it would be Ephraim or the other prince, Innes, who would end up having her in the end—but the Frelian's affections, like his own, were too masked, too fearful for him to have the courage to explore. He wondered if the Frelian's pain was similar to his own—after all, he was losing the object of his affections to his rival. But since the Frelian prince had never truly tasted her company, and therefore did not know what he was losing, his spite for Ephraim and his desire for her seemed to leave him in a matter of months, and he accepted his defeat.

The rogue would not do so quite as easily.

When she had begun to speak again, she sought out his company with increasing frequency. She would ask him about Carcino with a quiet interest, or reflect about the day's hardships and the lives lost. Sometimes she would not say anything at all; sometimes she would only sit beside him, tracing the veins on the back of his hand in such an intimate way that one would have that they were lovers and not mere acquaintances. The idea of her as his lover made the knife in that dark, hidden place twist again, for he knew it was impossible. She was a sinless creature, innocent and pure with such a delicate conscience. He was a self-serving knave, disregarding of other people's emotions and lives, stepping over whomever he needed to in order to get what he wanted. But it seemed that now, when he had encountered the one thing in the world he desired so desperately, he could not attain it.

Did she know what she did to him? Surely she must have had an _inkling_. Surely she must have noticed how he stiffened at her touch, how he listened to her words with an acute intentness, all the while wondering if Ephraim listened to her as he did. He wondered if Ephraim knew that she was left-handed, or that her favorite color was yellow, and her least-favorite black. He wondered if Ephraim knew that pearls were her favorite kind of jewelry, that she talked in her sleep or that she had a great fear of wyverns.

What was she doing to him? He repeated this question in his mind, never quite knowing the answer—or perhaps avoiding it out of fear for what it may be. He saw how she laughed her pealing, lilting laugh, touching Ephraim's chest in a small sign of affection. He wished she could see him with eyes like those, seeing him as a man worth desiring and not just some lout whose soul she was concerned for. He wanted to feel her touch without reservation or guilt. He wanted to be worthy of her love. Yes—he wanted all of those things. But he knew he would not attain a single one.

When the war ended, he knew that it all had to end. So he broke his contract with her. The day he left Rausten, she finally gave him his pay, although he had almost entirely forgotten about it. Twisting away from her, he had begun to walk away. But he was not more than a step from the princess when she grabbed his wrist, pulled him back towards her and planted a tiny kiss at the corner of his mouth.

Her eyes had been sad, almost as if she knew, like him, that they would probably never meet again. Her hand stayed tight around his wrist, like she did not want him to go. He could not understand the look in her eyes, could not understand her kiss, could not understand himself—so he had slipped his wrist from her grasp, and briefly bringing his hand to her cheek, he left. He did not look back, he did not slow down, he did not dare to think of her face until he had returned to Carcino for fear that his resolve would crumble and that he would run back to her, and the love he could not have.

Not four months passed before the news of the marriage of the King of Renais and the Princess of Rausten reached his ears. He remembered feeling cold, painfully cold. He remembered something tightening around his heart like a vice, squeezing, purging it of warmth and affection. He remembered thinking about her eyes, and her kiss, and her tiny fingers, tracing the backs of his hands. And on that autumn day in a valley of Carcino, he shattered.

His subjects noticed the instant change in him. He was no longer good-humored and wry like he had always been. He no longer smiled or snickered at things he found amusing. There was none of the dancing mischief left in his eyes—all his mirth had left him that day. For it was on that day that he realized his foolishness in allowing himself to love a girl who would never love him back—it was on that day, as he thought of the fairytale wedding she had always dreamed of, and Ephraim's hand wound around her own, and his lips on her cheek—that he resigned himself to a life without aim. He had no goals, no aspirations—he had inherited all of his father's fortune, enough to allow him to live luxuriously for a lifetime and beyond. He had no dreams left within him. He had realized, with a miserable desperation, that he had placed all his faith and hope and affections in that girl, and now that she was someone else's, he had nothing left. He had nothing to accomplish, nothing to chase. He was just a shell, seeing everything and saying nothing.

Another six months passed since the news of her marriage. She'd be eighteen now, he mused. He wondered if she had changed at all. He wondered if her hair was longer, or, he thought with a menacing twitch of his fingers, if her belly were round with a child.

Anytime his thoughts touched on that particular subject, his face contorted with a kind of immeasurable grief. To marry a man was one thing, but to bear his child was another—plenty of marriages were unhappy, loveless, unfruitful. But a child was much more…permanent.

If he ever married, for instance, there was no doubt in his mind that he would be the most dismissive and standoffish of husbands. There was only one woman in the world he wished to hold at night, one woman who could relieve his pains and sate his loneliness. He wanted the girl who could meet his eyes and challenge him. He wanted the girl with fire in her heart and green in her eyes. He wanted the girl who would clip him on the shoulder with her tiny white-gloved hands when he said the wrong thing. He wanted the sinless goddess who used to make him shudder when she touched his hand; he wanted _her_. No one else would do.

One day, as he sat in his study, staring at the wood-paneled wall and thinking of tiny hands grabbing at his wrists, he was interrupted by a messenger.

The message he conveyed was brief; there was revolt in Rausten. The Princess was in danger. And she had asked for him to come back to her—_him_, specifically.

For the first time in a year, he moved with purpose.

He arrived in Rausten within three days, having proceeded with the utmost haste. The closer he got to his destination, the more increasing became the talk of revolts and rebellions there. Apparently, the pious people of Rausten had not taken a liking to the idea of being ruled by a foreign king, nor did they want him soiling the bed of their sinless princess. And the idea of him making a son through her and putting him on the throne was enough to drive every god-fearing man in Rausten mad with zealous rage.

He wondered why he had not foreseen such a turn of events—Ephraim did not attend chapel, nor was he religious by any means. Rausten was a theocracy; naturally they would want a man of the faith as their king. And with the recent abdication of her uncle, who had apparently grown tired of power, Ephraim was the new Pontifex. To have a foreign king who was barely a man and certainly not a god-fearing one as the leader of their faith was enough to finally goad the men of Rausten into rebellion. And it seemed they only wanted one thing—Ephraim's blood.

It was astonishing to truly see first-hand the stirrings of a rebellion, and to see it being committed against two people whose romance I had witnessed with my own eyes was more than overwhelming. Some blasphemed the Princess—or now the Queen, as I suppose she was—calling her a whore and loathing her for handing her country over to Renais as though it were a wedding-gift. Others placed the blame entirely on Ephraim, saying he bewitched their beloved angel-queen into marrying him by some foreign method. Those who blamed Ephraim insisted that only his death would purge Rausten of sin; others roared for the blood of both King _and_ Queen.

The thought of her, dead, made the ice curl around his heart again, clenching tight and threatening to strangle him completely. If she were dead, he didn't think he could stand it. He was startled when he began entertaining thoughts of jumping from towers if such a thing should ever happen. And then he realized it, as though the fact had always been present, and yet he had denied himself it's truth; He realized that, in his eyes at least, there was no place for him in this world without her. All of her moods and fancies and dreams had become so very much a part of him that he was sure he would die if she were gone. To know that the one woman since his mother who had seen good in his heart was dead would surely be enough to cleave what remained of his spirit in twain. He resolved immediately that he would find her and he would protect her, throwing his own life down as simply as if it were a pin if it meant keeping her safe.

He arrived at the castle on the fourth day. When he came into the Great Hall, he saw the thrones were empty. He considered it odd—it was midday, and mass was not in attendance. Why was the lovely Queen not on her throne, as he had so often pictured her to be?

A guard had roughly asked him who he was, and he had responded simply that he was Rennac, friend of the Queen. The guard's eyes widened slightly, as if he recognized the name. He dashed away, then, and returned only a minute later.

"The Queen will see you," he said stoutly. The guard led him up a narrow tower of the castle, reachable only by spiral staircase. In all his time spent at Castle Rausten, he had never been there before.

When they reached two mahogany double doors, the guard nodded and left him alone. He found that his hand froze against the door handle; he wondered what she would do, what she would say. The last time he had seen her, she had kissed him and gripped him like she never wanted him to leave. He didn't think he could stand it if she were to do something like that again. But then again, he had traveled so far to see her, and dreamt of her every night for a year. He would not wait any longer. He could not.

Forcing the heavy door forward and pushing his way inside, he found himself in a sunny library, circular and with many windows. And there, seated on a cushion and thumbing through some scriptures, was the object of his adoration, the goddess of his idolatry.

She looked up from her book, her lovely, pond-colored eyes weary. When she saw him, they seemed to be instantly revived, and her mouth parted in a little sigh. Tossing her book to the floor, she crossed the room in only a few short strides, her long gown flitting about her. It was different from her other dress—older, somehow. This dress had a long, ornate skirt that covered her legs and a bodice that pinched her waist and revealed the tops of her small breasts.

"Rennac," she said breathlessly, throwing her arms around his neck. She pressed herself against him in a way he found both wanton and emotionally desperate, as though she had never longed for anyone's embrace as much as she had his. The thought of that made his heart twitch painfully.

He was shocked when he felt a sob wrack through her body, making her entire frame shudder. Taking his hands into her hair, he held her there, wishing time could stop and they could stay like that forever, finding solace in one another.

When she finally lifted her tear-stained face from his chest, he surprised himself by bending to kiss the tears from her cheeks. She did not protest, shove him away or even frown—instead, she wound her fingers in his hair, seeming to enjoy his touch. He did not know what possessed him to touch her in such a way, but the year of thirsting for her presence had taken a toll on him. When her sobbing finally ceased, he brought his head up to look at her again. He had so many questions, and she must have seen them growing in his eyes, for she nodded resolutely and attempted to regain her composure.

"They wish for me to annul my marriage," she whispered. "And to repent for marrying Ephraim in the first place, they want me to abdicate."

"Who will rule?" he asked, his brow knit.

"One of the council members," she said surely. "There are all ordained—surely one of them must be the ruler that my people seek…"

He could see tears forming in her eyes again, and he held his hand against his cheek to stay them. She did not sob, though a single tear slid down the plane of her cheek.

"Will you do it?" he asked, trying to hide his anxiety. In truth, the idea of her divorcing her husband and forgoing her throne did not bother him as much as it should have; in his eyes, it brought her back within his reach. And once he had that, he knew he would never let her leave him again.

"I shall have to," she answered miserably. "I was meant to be a good ruler, to make my country happy…I have failed my uncle, my people, my parents…"

At the mention of her deceased parents, the tears pooled in her eyes again. He pressed her close to him once more, kissing her forehead to soothe her. Another minute passed and she pulled herself from him, composed once more.

"Why have you called me here?" he finally asked the question at the forefront of his mind.

She blinked at him, and her eyes slid to the floor, almost shamefully. Turning away from him, she spoke to the wall.

"You are my only true friend, Rennac…I am afraid, and I…I needed you to be here with me." She turned back to him, her expression unsure, but affectionate—so affectionate, and all of it directed at him. He could feel the last strands of his resolve fraying against the tenderness of her words.

"I could not go another day without seeing you," she whispered finally, seeming to speak the thing she had wanted most to speak.

He could feel his heart coming back to life in one gut-wrenching blow. The knife in the hidden chamber of his heart finally receded, fading away. His hatred and his cynicism melted away as well. Now the only emotions he felt were for her, for his love. His only love.

She found his hand and began to trace the back of it, as she used to in the days when she hadn't belonged to anyone. "I will annul my marriage, and I will abdicate," she continued in a whisper, so close to him, and yet, not close enough. "I…would like to leave with you…once I do."

She flushed and looked away, afraid of his reaction. Inside, he could not believe what he was hearing. How could it have worked out this perfectly? How had she given up her prince, and her throne, and fallen right into his lap? Things as good as this did not happen to sinners; good things happened to the pure and the gentle, like her. And yet, there she was, her hand on his and her offer of forever still hanging in the air.

As way of answer, he took hold of her chin, pressing his lips to hers. For the second time, he tasted her, only this time he would get to have his fill. She was so sweet, unbelievably so, as sweet as her face and her voice and all of her intentions. She had mewled and sighed, reveling in the feeling of a grown man's intrusive kiss.

When he pulled back from her, he left his face close to hers, their breath mingling on each other's lips. He whispered his love for her, winding his fingers through her loose hair. She echoed his confession in a raspier, needier voice, and he took her hand and led her to the lounge against the wall.

Ephraim would not give up his wife without a fight; he asserted his status as King, attempted to quell the rebellions and even attempted to have Rennac expelled from court, as he seemed to know from the way his wife stroked his face and smiled up at him that he was to be Ephraim's replacement. Though Ephraim felt affection for his wife, it was not the kind of love Rennac felt for her—it was a very male kind of love, aggressive, territorial and possessive, treating her less like a human capable of thought and decision and more like a pretty piece of property. He would continue to rage and accuse the rogue of stealing from him all throughout the proceedings of the annulment. Once the act was completed, Ephraim was promptly returned to Renais, much to the universal pleasure of the people of Rausten.

Unexpectedly, it seemed that his departure was enough to satisfy them on the whole. The people's love for their angel-queen was back, and all talk of revolt had died down completely. He approached her about this one night.

"You have regained the love of your people," he noted simply. She smiled serenely at him, nodding once. "So I have. And I thank God for it."

"You will remain Queen, then." He said it not as a question, but a statement.

She surprised him with a wry smile. "To do that would only be to stir my people into anger again, for they do not want me to marry another foreign atheist, now do they?"

He stood, utterly confused, until she brought her hand to his cheek and smirked. Realization shone between them.

"You wish to marry me," he muttered.

"I have said no such thing," she said, that haughty inflection that he missed so much finally back in her voice. "To do so would be unladylike. The _man_ must propose to the _woman_."

Falling into the rhythm of her speech, he smirked at the familiar verbal challenge, saying, "Well then, I had better be quick about it." Forgetting his pride, or perhaps just forgoing it, he stooped down to one knee as his radiant princess beamed, his fingers curling around her hand as he said with an easy confidence, "L'Arachel of Rausten, will you be my wife?"

She pretended to think about it, tapping her chin with her finger. Then she held up the same finger, staying him. "On one condition," she teased, wagging the finger at him.

He jumped energetically, half because he was responding to her teasing, and half because he was truly eager to hear what she said next.

She took hold of the cord he wore about his neck and gently tugged on it, asking in their silent physical language for him to bend his head towards her.

"You must never leave me again," she whispered passionately, her lips against his throat.

Turning his head with an easy skill and capturing her lips in a brief, hungry kiss, he growled out the word, "Never."

Yes, perhaps he was a fool. But as she held his face in her hands and pressed her body against his, he thought that among his qualities, his foolishness was his best.

**Just a quick little something I whipped up in an hour…god, I love this couple. How I wish they had just had a friggin' ending together. I mean, WTF. She had no chemistry with Innes and with Ephraim it was just awkward. And come on—DOZLA? The guy old enough to be her grandpa gets an ending with her but Rennac doesn't? Rip off.**


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